Left Behind
by Tour de Force
Summary: When you die everything's left behind. Wishes, hopes, dreams, futures. But what they fail to see is that death is more than just a corpse. Because even though he's still here, he died a long time ago. Rated T. Part of the "Ghost" series.


**Summary: **When you die everything's left behind. Wishes, hopes, dreams, futures. But what they fail to see is that death is more than just a corpse. Because even though he's still here, he died a long time ago.

**Length: **2689 words.

**Rating**: T. For violence, death, depression, and language that might offend some readers.

**AN: **First in a series of one-shots about the ghosts of the Victors. Some guest appearances by canon characters, but mainly OCs. Oh, and you better believe it was inspired by the _Spring Awakening _song of the same name.

* * *

.:left behind:.

Sitting at the long, ridiculously ornate dining room table, Mylar stared into his now-soggy cereal.

Everyone around him, his brothers and sisters, his mother and father, were happily chatting and making conversation, yet he remained aloof.

A standoffish, anti-social, unfriendly Mylar was nothing new to his family. They'd all lived with him long enough to know that this was just his personality. Or, at least one side of it. They'd all met this angsty, angry, slightly bloodthirsty teen before.

This. This was different, though. He was jumpy, twitchy, on high alert. Nervous.

And nervous was not something that Mylar de Salvo, District 1 Victor and Career of 10 years, had ever been before.

This. This was something new and unexpected and unsettling. Mylar had **won**. At the time, he'd been jubilant about it. Ecstatic. Cheering and catcalling during the replay of the Games at his interview, as a matter of fact.

Though they'd never admit it, there had been something different then, too. Looking back, Mylar had been on edge during his interview…

Little did anyone know the source of the sudden change in Mylar's behavior and, what seemed like his personality, was an old friend.

An old friend who was now dead.

An old friend whom Mylar had killed himself.

This fact had not bothered him. At first.

Killing was just a part of the Game. You had to do it if you wanted to make it out of the Arena alive. 'sides, he'd killed 7 people before he'd ever found her. She was more of an afterthought, at the time, than a target. Chaise had not been on his hit list.

chaise…

chaise…

chaise…

CHAISE…

The name was ringing in his ears as he continued to stare into his bowl.

...

_They were District partners. And he had __**betrayed**__ her. She __**trusted**__ him. She was no threat to his "precious victory". How could he live with himself? He was a bloodthirsty __savage__. A brutal __kille__r. And a complete __monster__. _

Those words did not belong to him. Those words belonged to an eleven year-old girl, with golden blonde hair and fair skin with a smattering of brown freckles, who had barely begun training and who was the scrappiest little thing he'd ever laid eyes on and who weighed 100 pounds, less than half his astounding size.

A little eleven year-old girl with green eyes. Chaise's eyes.

Not that it was surprising. After all, Glimmer and Chaise were (_are?_) sisters.

And when Glimmer cornered him after that party, he was more scared than he'd ever been in the Games. For the murderous rage that emanated from her, the utterly hopeless look that was in her eyes, was all at once the most terrifying and tragic thing that Mylar had ever seen.

The little girl screamed at him, affirming every despicable thing that Mylar knew about himself as the truth. She cried, hot tears pouring off her face and her nose running. She even punched him, over and over again in the stomach, and he did nothing to stop her.

That pain was far less urgent than the one radiating from his chest. The feeling of his soul being ripped apart, of a knife being thrust into his heart, of someone completely destroying him.

With every punch Glimmer threw, Mylar was reminded of Chaise's final moment. Of that echoing scream. Of that pathetic whimper. Of those desperate last words.

Of her last breath, that now seemed to occupy the space where his humanity once lay.

At that time, Mylar was sure that the encounter had lasted hours. How could a person be changed like that, so completely and irrevocably, in twenty minutes?

Now, every time he sees Glimmer, it feels as if someone's dropped one thousand pounds onto his chest. It almost kills him to see someone so young and innocent so angry and lost and helpless.

...

Everyone else has left the table.

And Mylar is still staring at his cereal bowl. He's not sure what he is to do, now. Applique offered him a job at the Training Center, which he knows he should take. To stay fit. To keep up with "the next big things". To forget about her.

But he can't. He cannot go back there. He cannot bear to see their hopeful faces. Because, when he does, he'll explode. He will tell them that it's not what it seems. That they shouldn't listen to the Trainers and all those who tell them that winning the Games is the greatest thing you could do with your life. Because it's not. It's the worst. Winning the Hunger Games is the worst thing that could ever happen to you.

So, instead, he goes to visit Scarlett. She knew Chaise, though Mylar's not sure if they are close. All he knows is that, had Chaise not volunteered, it would probably be Scarlett whom he was tearing himself up over. It would've been one of Scarlett's siblings who beat him up. And she had plenty of them.

He knocked on the door of her family's small flat. It seems too tiny, especially in comparison to his large, luxurious home in the Victor's Village. A young boy answers the door. Mylar's told that his name is Crimson. He looks like he couldn't be older than 5, yet he's dressed up in armor, all ready to go to the Training Center.

It almost makes him sick to think about a child so little training. He knows he must be eight, at least, as it's the entrance age, but it doesn't make it any less vile.

The little boy leads him up a cramped stairwell that's littered with papers and clothing and an assortment of other small items. They walk through a tight hallway before Crimson knocks on the door at the end. It swings open and he sees her.

Scarlett.

Her fiery hair for which she was named is pulled back in a ponytail and she, too, is dressed in training armor.

Once again, Mylar feels as if he's going to vomit. This girl is sixteen, yet she has been trained like an assassin. If she's good enough, though he has no knowledge of her skill level, she might enter within the next two years. She has no idea that this single event, the thing that she's probably been dreaming of and working for her whole life, would cause her world to come crashing down.

"C-can I t-talk to you…?" he sputters. The girl looks stunned. It seems as if she's in awe of the fact that the most recent Hunger Games Victor is standing in the doorway of her bedroom.

"Uh… yeah. Sure. C-C'mon in," she says, ushering him in.

Mylar stoops and enters the room, taking a seat on the bed closest to the door. He observes that there are 3 others just like it in the room. This room houses four girls.

Scarlett settles in on what Mylar assumes to be her bed. She looks a little uncomfortable and very nervous.

"So… was there something you wanted to ask me… or, y'know, talk to me about?" she asks carefully.

"Oh. Oh yeah. Uhm," Mylar clears his throat. It feels thick, like it's constricting. Like his body is trying to physically prevent him from getting the words out.

"H-how well did you know Chaise? Chaise Ondelette?" He asks quietly. The words hang between them as Scarlett's face falls. Tears begin to form in her eyes, and Mylar stands up. It was a mistake to come here. Chaise and Scarlett were probably best friends and she knows that he killed her and she hates him for it and cannot believe that he now has the nerve to come here and ask her about Chaise.

"I-I didn't know her well," Scarlett hiccups. "We'd talked a few times during training. Maybe eaten lunch together a few times. At the most, I had seen a film with her. But I didn't know her near well enough to justify that.

"I know she just did it because she knows that we need my tesserae. Look at this place, we don't have any money! It's because of it that we can feed everyone! But, her family wasn't rich either. And it's not like she was the best Career for the job, and I just feel so damn _guilty_!" She gets out before the waterworks begin.

But Mylar's not going over to comfort her. Because Mylar is crouched over, his head between his knees, almost hyperventilating. It's like a nightmare, but worse because he is definitely awake and now there's no way to escape the symphony of agonizing screams. The voices of twenty-three people echo through his head, tormenting him, and creating a pain unlike any he's felt before.

The revelation about Chaise's kindness was all too much. He could take her being better than he was. Everyone was. He could take her being a not-so-vicious Career. Plenty of kids were that way. But a saint? A fucking martyr? That is whom he had killed so brutally in cold-blood?

If this was true, than he was really, truly, and honestly a monster. He did not deserve to live his life. And why not admit it? He was _tired_ of this life already.

It had not even been six months, and Mylar de Salvo already knew that this life was unliveable. How long could he bear Chaise's constant screaming that deprived him of sleep and sanity? Or the glances from little Glimmer that destroyed him? Or the fact that this hell was private? No one else knew what happened in this dark abyss. They all thought he was fine.

And with this new-found knowledge, he said good-bye to Scarlett, who was still crying on her bed. Her mascara was running as he thanked her, whispering that it was not she who should dwell on the tragedy of Chaise's death.

Mylar ran through the streets, almost knocking over old ladies and trampling small children. He barreled through crowds and leapt over carts, not stopping until he reached his new home in the Village.

As he thrust the front door open and called out, no one answered. No one was home. It felt, nowadays, as if no one was ever home. He ambled through he house 'til he reached the garage that housed the new car. Not that he'd used it yet.

Mylar dug through his dad's old toolbox until he finally found what he needed.

...

By now, he felt disconnected from his body. He was just going through the motions. Because, by now, he could see the light at the end of the tunnel. He had found his route to freedom. He had finally beaten the system, rigged his own victory.

Everything was rushing through his mind a million miles an hour. Childhood memories of playing with his friends and siblings in the street, at their old house. Receiving his first weapon on his eighth birthday. Fighting with kids inside and outside the Training Center. Growing colder and harder with each passing year. He remembers yelling at the escort that he was to be the next Victor. The chariots. The interviews. The Games. His killings…

One dead. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven.

And then there was Chaise. Hanging in a net, tangled up with her limbs flailing as she cried and tried to escape. He laughed at her. She started to cry and scream, begging him not to do it. He smiled. She was almost crazy with hysteria, doing her best to talk him out of it. He simply shook his head and pressed his knife to her throat.

"Sweet dreams," he had said, as one of his tears dripped onto his hands. Then she was dead, a stream of blood pouring down her neck and into his palm. Suddenly, Mylar felt something, something different from what he had felt in that moment. He felt regret.

It was washing over him, like acid, burning his skin away. After that it was if someone had poured salt over his poor open flesh. It stung and he writhed in agony. Finally, it was an unimaginable pain that began within him. A fire in his heart.

Mylar felt as if he was about to explode as everything in the world was set ablaze, lit up like a firework in the night sky.

And there was nothing left

...

His last moments were left behind, nothing but a point on the horizon and a fading memory as he begin to fly towards something else at the speed of light.

A different memory. It was of two girls, sitting around a campfire, their mother and father on either side of them. Mylar watched, though he was sure that this particular recollection did not belong to him. One girl had silvery blonde hair and was toasting a marshmallow. The other had brown hair and was whispering in her father's ear.

Then, the blonde threw her marshmallow at the brunette. The other girl, the brunette, who looked to be older, was shocked at first. But then, she smiled and began to chase the younger blonde. The two ran and ran, much to their and their parents' delight.

And then the girl with brown hair laughed. It was a beautiful and melodious sound, that filled the night. It swelled and rose and finally swallowed everyone up.

Except for Mylar and the girl. Who was now older than she had been in the memory.

Who he could now see was Chaise. Her green eyes sparkled as she extended a hand out to him. Mylar didn't know what to do, at first. He stared at her, looking into her deep green eyes, and wondering what she could possibly mean by this.

"It's going to be alright," she said.

And he smiled, as he took her hand, and they were engulfed in light.

…

When a boy came to get his older brother for dinner, no one answered. He forced open the door, which had been locked, and then fell to the ground.

For his older brother was hanging from a bar in his closet, a noose made of rope around his neck. Asphyxiation. Strangulation. The boy knew the terms for this method of killing. He knew that his brother, his older brother whom he'd admired and looked up to, was dead.

His face was black and blue, yet there was a smile upon it.

A note was taped to his chest.

The boy carefully walked over and ripped it off.

_I know that you think I must have gone off the deep end. That I left my entire future behind. That I made a terrible mistake. The truth is, though, that I died a long time ago. The man you knew has long since been left behind._

_Mylar_

**fin. **


End file.
